


Lentil Soup and Tiger Stripes

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [94]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Arguing, Blanket Fic, Bottom Sam, Domestic, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Food Metaphors, Food Porn, Hair-pulling, M/M, Makeup Sex, Oral Sex, Post-Series, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Song Lyrics, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 13:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4920610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the failed dinner at Gibson's Steakhouse, Sam seeks out advice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lentil Soup and Tiger Stripes

**Author's Note:**

> "Shotgun" by Sean McConnell later on in fic. Listen to it, it is a wonderful Wincest song.

In Mrs. Martinez’s house, it always smells like warm bread and chamomile tea.

She never lacks blankets. She owns at least forty. But she’ll never turn one away either. Most of them have been crocheted. Some of them are San Marcos creations, proudly showing off prints of lions, pandas, or eagles. All of them have a story. Even the simplest ones she picked up from a street vendor on the corner of 18th and Ashland has a tale attached to it. Ese hombre was selling them priced way too cheap. Five dollars, she asked on a hot day in July, why so little?

“Summertime,” he had replied, grief in his voice. “No one buys blankets in summertime.”

Just a nudge or two more and she knew the names of his children, the name of his town in Guatemala, and the kind of journey he had made from there to here.

With her help, they sold every blanket but one for twenty dollars a piece on that busy intersection. There was no car Mrs. Martinez would not approach while the light was red. And if the light turned green, traffic waited for her to cross until she was safely on the sidewalk again. The people who bought blankets were a mix of bewildered tourists, familiar faces from church or the grocery store, or strangers she had simply never met before.

The last blanket, which happened to be one with a tiger, she purchased for herself.

Yes, it was July. Yes, she had been sweating since she stepped out of her house that morning at nine.

“But it will not be summer forever,” she told this man. “And when winter visits, I’ll have the sun from summer and my blanket from you.”

She refused to take a portion of the blanket money or a discount on her blanket. She paid him twenty-five dollars, the extra five as a thank you for the bottle of water he shared with her. Most importantly, Mrs. Martinez gave the man three names—with these two names and hers, he could find work.

Sometimes her blankets rotate from family to family. New babies, visiting relatives, friends passing through, lovers moving in, there is no kind of person she wouldn’t extend a blanket to.

The same goes for her food.

Decadent, delicious bowls of albondigas, pantrucas, menudo, sopa, and lentejas are served as soon as the wind in Chicago turns a little colder.

Lentejas are so easy.

“You make them anywhere,” she tells Sam, taking his hand. Step by careful step, she leads him into her kitchen. He fixed a light in here for her last month. The garbage disposal the month before that. Some cracked tiles six months ago in March. “Es real easy, you see, Altito.”

Hand towels hang on the cupboards beneath the sink. Always at the ready, a rolling pin sits next to a mortar and pestle in the center of the largest countertop. Goya and paprika rest on the spice rack nearby—a gift from Dean one Christmas. The spice rack spins and it’s an improvement from keeping the spices in the cupboard. She used to scoot over a chair in order to reach. These days, the oregano is more convenient.

Mrs. Martinez has made every kind of food here. Tamales, chiles rellenos, handmade tortillas, enchiladas from scratch, pierogis her Polish friends taught her how to make, Cuban style black beans and rice, called congris. The list goes on for miles.

La Virgen watches over the entire kitchen from her place above the sink, on the windowsill.

The sadness in her expression is balanced out by the kindness in her eyes.

Below La Virgen, there’s a small hunk of Brillo pad. She only washes her dishes with Palmolive. No one needs to ask why, that’s just how it is.

While the things in her kitchen may not be new, they are taken care of. The containers that store rice, sugar, and salt are from the late eighties, clear glass with blue and white geese decorated over them. Her casserole dishes hail from the late nineties, not a crack or imperfection in any one. She’s been cooking since she was tall enough to reach the stove. Necessity required her to learn and learn fast. Her parents worked. She was the oldest of six. Her brothers and sisters were more like children to her.

“This one I learned early.” She fishes out a silver soup pot from inside the oven. “You can too.”

Sam blushes. He never had to learn out of necessity.

There was always someone there.

And when there wasn’t, he just stepped out to the cafeteria.

“It isn’t early for me,” he blurts out, embarrassed. “I can barely make grilled cheese.”

Holding a pack of lentils in her hands, she laughs. The lentils pour into the pot. “So?”

“So…”

“Altito, just fill this with water, enough to cover. Nada mas.”

It can’t be that easy.

Boil the water. Add paprika, cumin, salt, oregano, bay leaf, and pepper. Simmer for one hour. Chop up two small potatoes, carrots, onions, and one green pepper. Drain the lentils. Sautee the chorizo with olive oil, cumin, paprika, all the chopped vegetables, minced garlic, and oregano. Once the potatoes are soft and chorizo is cooked, add this into the pot with the lentils. Add enough water to cover everything and raise to a slow boil. Add some tomato paste if desired, but it is not necessary.

While the pot simmers, Sam spills everything.

His migraines are worse.

Dean bought him a piano. Something to focus on. Something to learn. Something for both of them to listen to instead of Sam crying in pain at night. It was a welcomed gesture. Sam learned quickly. He doesn’t mention it to her, but he can play without using his hands. The odd thing is, by using this ability, he thought the migraines would come roaring back.

Frustrated, he meant to short wire his brain.

He played so fierce one night, he completely forgot there was somewhere he needed to be.

And he didn’t even realize it in time to race across the city up to the Gold Coast. There was no save, no romantic comedy apology in front of a restaurant full of people, no public affirmations of his never ending guilt for standing Dean up.

And after that night, Dean has been quiet.

Not mad.

Just quiet.

His brother will follow his usual routine: cooking, cleaning, working, volunteering, watching golf and muttering at the television that he can’t understand why anyone would pay money to see this game.

He even got Sam a new job.

Not that Sam asked for it.

But it’s there. A tenured, part-time position at the University of Illinois-Chicago, about ten minutes away from their home. In terms of academia, that job itself is gold. Benefits, excellent pay, only nine hours a week in the classroom teaching three freshman level law classes, then three more hours of office time. That doesn’t include grading or tutoring, but the college will pay him for eighteen hours of work a week.

It’s a great job.

Something Sam always wanted to do.

Mrs. Martinez turns the stovetop off.

“If you don’t like chorizo, substitute ground beef, pork, or chicken.” She looks up at Sam. “If that is easy, yours is easy too.”

Sam’s not sure his life can be compared to the protein used in lentil soup.

Before he leaves, she hands him the recipe of what they made, and the San Marcos tiger blanket.

“Stripes,” she murmurs, patting his left hand, her soft fingertips brushing against a series of faded scars. “To match the blanket and to match your hermano.”

Two steps outside of his own door, Sam realizes the last word Mrs. Martinez said in that sentence.

And the invitation after to come over for congris tomorrow.

 

Making lentejas can be simple.

For Sam, it isn’t. He cuts his fingers trying to chop the onion, and the potatoes don’t boil down as fast as they should. His shaky hands pour in too much oregano and he can’t exactly tell if the chorizo is cooked through or not. What took Mrs. Martinez half an hour to throw together takes Sam a good ninety minutes, not including time to tend to his injuries.

He burns himself on the stainless steel soup pot.

And worse, he adds a little too much salt, but by the time he thinks of adding another potato, it’s all boiled down already.

Sweaty and irritated, a tension headache originates in his jawline. It crawls up and around to the back of his neck, where it eventually invades his temples.

By accident, Sam stands at the sink and moves the soup pot off the main burner using his freak flag flying high mind powers. Invisible hands do his work while he tries to cope with the sharp pain shooting through his skull.

Because Sam is a masochist, he concentrates on the lid sitting on the countertop. It floats up, somewhat shaky, and rattles into place. If Dean saw the state of the kitchen right now, he’d have a migraine similar to Sam’s. It shouldn’t take ten pots and pans to make this dish, but somehow, Sam has found a way. He’s refraining from running next door and pleading with Mrs. Martinez to give him the pot they made together earlier and passing it off as his own.

A single wooden cooking spoon rests itself against the cooling pot.

In time with Sam’s fingers which rub at his temples, the spoon taps against the lid.

Sam freezes.

The spoon stills.

Pain in his head, neck, and shoulders begins to fade away.

However, after a minute, the agony escalates, surging forth, causing Sam to cry out. Dazed by the rush, Sam grasps at the counter, panting.

She really said hermano.

Because he must have said brother.

It was so shitty of him to forget their date. Dean had been looking forward to a steak from that place since they moved here. And Sam couldn’t get himself together enough to show up. No, Dean didn’t seem too upset, but he’s been keeping to himself lately and it worries Sam.

In turn, Sam never asked for Dean to get him a new job. Sam is an adult. If he wanted a new job, he could very well get one on his own. Sometimes his brother has this tendency to step all over whatever Sam wants in favor of…

Slowing Sam down.

Jagged pieces fall imperfectly into place. Sam inhales and glares at the wooden spoon.

He sends it flying across the kitchen, spinning in circles once, twice, three times… faster and faster until the toaster rattles from the excess energy and the pipes begin to groan. Sam sighs, closing his eyes, kneeling and holding his head. He makes the toaster ping and the sink turn on, the fridge door open and shut, every drawer pop out, the lights flicker on and off, and finally, he makes the pot of lentils sway from the stove to the counter where it lands with a soft thud.

The spoon drifts like a feather falling to the ground. It lands in Sam’s outstretched hand.

None of that caused additional pain.

Instead, it took away the migraine.

When Sam stands up and leaves the kitchen, he leaves the spoon behind, stirring the pot of lentejas he cooked himself.

 

“Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“I made dinner.”

“Your turn to pay the delivery guy.”

“No… I-I made dinner.”

“Grilled cheese?”

“No.”

“Cereal?”

“No, Dean, I made dinner.”

“…okay.”

“Are you hungry?”

“You know better than to ask that.”

“Well… uhm… it’s on the table.”

“Alright. Let me wash up.”

Five minutes later, Dean sits down. He peers into his bowl, curious and somewhat frightened. Sam knows that he hides a bottle of Tums in his nightstand; Sam also can’t blame him.

“How is it?”

“Not bad.”

“Yeah?”

“What is it?”

“Lentils. Er… lentejas.”

“Hmm.”

“You don’t have to eat the whole thing.”

“Don’t tell me how to eat, Sam.”

“Well I’m just saying, if it’s terrible…”

“If it was I’d still eat the whole thing.”

“That’s my point.”

“What is?”

Sighing, Sam puts his spoon down. “I won’t learn if you don’t tell me what I’m doing wrong, or what I could be doing better. If you eat it and it tastes like garbage, then I’m always gonna make garbage. Don’t you see? You need to tell me when I fuck up, Dean. It’s just as important as telling me when I get it right.”

Sharp green eyes assess the situation, calculating and aloof. John never answered a question without analyzing it and his options at least ten times through. Now in their fifties, his children do the same.

“Okay,” Dean says with a shrug. “You fucked up.”

“When? How?”

Spoon in his bowl, Dean mutters his reply. “I don’t care about Gibson’s. Couldn’t give a rat’s ass about you not showing up because that’s how you are, Sam. You’re scatterbrained. When you get wrapped up in shit you’re on another planet. And you know what? That’s fine. Because again, that’s how you are. It ain’t news to me.” His eyes lift and land on Sam. “When’s your first day of class?”

The truth spills out, unavoidable.

“Tomorrow,” Sam admits.

“Right. And you haven’t done shit about it.”

“Dean, you can’t just get me a new job. I need to give notice. You didn’t even _ask_ me if that’s what I wanted.”

“No, because I am done asking. I asked you to take care of yourself. I asked you to scale back. I asked you—for your own _good_ , Sam—to stop working so much. Did you do any of it? Can you honestly, look me in the eyes tell me that you did any of what I asked?”

This is definitely not as easy as lentil soup.

Sam’s spoon stirs his lentils without his hands. His hands, meanwhile, stay clasped in his lap.

“No,” he answers, first looking down at his plate, then up at Dean. “I didn’t.”

Dean’s lips purse in displeasure. He’s clearly hurt, but then again, so is Sam. Miles of uneasy silence stretches out between them and throughout their house. The hand towels near the sink can feel the tension. So can the bottle of Palmolive.

The first to move, Dean pushes himself away from the table and stands.

Ache wells in Sam’s throat. He starts to plead, “Don’t walk away…”

This is not how they finish fights. Not anymore.

Leaning heavy on his cane, Dean sighs. He runs his free hand through his hair. “I’m not walking away. I need a piece of bread.”

“I told you, you don’t have to eat it.”

“I know that,” Dean affirms, his tone hard but slightly less defensive. “But you put too much salt, Sam. It tastes fine except for that. Just needs a piece of bread is all.”

Maybe it isn’t as easy as lentil soup.

They can try to make it that way.

 

Tinted in lapis created by an ebbing sunset, Sam leads his brother into their bedroom.

Not a light spoils the shade of blue they’re bathed in.

Sam loosens the ponytail in his hair. His hands remain slipped into Dean’s. The more intricate the movements of his unseen fingers, the more peace seeps into his chest and blossoms from there. It stretches out as he presses their lips together, Dean’s full bottom lip pushing against his own. Arterial warmth sets Sam’s anxieties to rest.

Magnetic and lovely, Dean’s fingertips brush against Sam’s throat.

Hushed, Dean apologizes, protective circles traced over the pulse of life that quickens as the inches between them close.

They’ve collected guns, ammo, knives, relics, spells, and cassette tapes.

But never something as simple as a blanket.

Sam’s apology in return wraps itself around Dean’s now bare shoulders. Standing face to face, both of them undressed, Sam drapes them both in the tiger from San Marcos. Stripes match stripes. The scars Sam has on his hands, the marks over Dean’s arm, and the concealed wounds they each carry somewhere deeper.

There isn’t any need to hold the blanket up.

Sam can do that just fine.

And Dean can lean forward, wrapping his arms around Sam’s waist and wrenching him close so they’re chest to chest, hip to hip, just fine too. In the most familiar way, Dean’s cheek presses against Sam’s ear.

They both let out a breath they’ve been holding. Sam tilts into Dean.

San Marcos blankets can be obnoxious to the eye. But they are the plushest, warmest blankets. Taken care of, they can last for more than thirty years. Mrs. Martinez washes her blankets every month, on what the neighbors call blanket day. After being hand washed, the blankets hang on a line outside, even in the winter. Since it’s the beginning of fall, the tiger has scents of fallen leaves, cinnamon, and Tide.

Lapis recedes to a cloak of indigo across Chicago.

Sam sits Dean on the edge of their bed. With the blanket wrapped generously around Dean, Sam slips down onto his knees, his hands spread over Dean’s thighs. His touch is as warm as the heated look Dean gives in response to every motion. Before Sam starts, Dean pulls him up slightly for one rough, blazing kiss.

A song wanders through Sam’s mind. He shares it, loud enough to be heard clearly, soft enough to allow the noise of what his mouth does to echo.

Lush and slick, Sam slips his lips over the flushed, rosy head of Dean’s cock. A hiss slips from Dean at the change in temperature and attention to his sensitive, twitching tip. Sam closes his eyes. He inhales deep, lost in smooth skin, rumbling moans, and the easy comfort of a warm blanket.

_When did you know your heart was mine? You’ve told the tale so many times. But there’s nothing better we gotta do, with all these miles to get to where we’re going to._

He could whisper like this forever.

If only he had known before.

But that’s okay. It’s alright. He’s made mistakes—they both have. And sometimes, mistakes are opportunities to learn. Sometimes they’re awful. But not always. Maybe next time, he’ll measure out the salt in the lentils instead of eyeballing it. This semester, he’s going to come home on time as much as possible. Because coming home means coming home to Dean.

Sultry and relaxed, Sam hums the tune to accompany the words, sucking Dean down inch by inch.

It’s a languid, folksy guitar kind of sound.

It thrums against Dean, swollen and heavy, the vibrations of Sam’s pursed lips drawing out beads of come. A minute later, the guitar pick plucks more intricate chords, playful and lingering. Sam opens his throat. He presses his fingers into the muscular form of Dean’s thighs.

_It’s a hard road honey and there ain’t nobody I’d rather be next to. It’s a rough ride, baby, but we’re gonna make it together, me and you._

Sam’s lips band over the thick, firm base of Dean. Above him, Dean lets out a noise that is half sigh and half moan. His eyes roll back the instant Sam applies pressure with his tongue, wet and debauched.

The guitar plays sweet.

And Sam blows filthy.

He takes every inch of Dean hard and fast, bobbing up and down rigorous and determined. He feels the twitch of Dean’s cock deep inside his throat. Every coil of Dean’s lower stomach is a reaction to the lustful pull of Sam’s expert mouth.

Popping off, Sam moans at the sight before him.

Dean in this blanket, legs spread, eyes dark, his cock hard and beautifully soaked.

Their mouths crush together—an act they perform simultaneously. Dean’s fingers scrape over Sam’s back, pulling him up, drawing him near, settling them so that Sam rests seated between his legs.

Indigo turns over, revealing the hickory of another early evening in bed.

 _When did you know? Tell me again. My heart was yours when you walked in. You made a vow, to hold it dear. And you kept your promise to me all these years_.

Sam doesn’t always know what’s best for him.

Just like he can’t always see how simple some things can be.

But he’s never doubted this.

Never, not once, has he regretted the push of Dean, that first burning, tender thrust inside. The ragged inhale and exhale that follows, or the brush of their lips before they kiss, Sam whimpering as Dean rolls his hips up, pressing in further, prying Sam open slow, sensual, and sublime.

Deftly coaxed into feeling the first sparks of instinctive pleasure, Sam responds, driving his hips down, rocking into Dean’s firm hold. The bed begins to creak. Every push down and pull up, the headboard thuds against the several dents already present in the wall. Sam tosses his head back, feverish and incensed by yearning. Dean fills him up and fucks him in a rocking, overwhelming rhythm. Every plunge is followed by an extra thrust, adding pressure, making Sam’s thighs tremble and his ass clench.

_When you’re tired, I’ll grab the wheel. You’ll take over when I’m done._

Mouths an inch apart, Sam stills Dean, fucking himself, crying out, driving them at a faster, punishing pace. Together, they wrestle for control, Sam twisting and Dean swiveling. Loving, rough fingers wind themselves in Sam’s hair and pull, they pull hard enough for sparks of pleasure to course through Sam from head to toe. Strong, flexing muscles maintain their focus, helping to hold Sam’s hips at an angle eternally exquisite.

Sam yields.

He melts, slumped into Dean, eyes squeezed shut, moaning and holding on.

 _Love is taking turns riding shotgun_.  

Dean drives Sam over the edge, wrenching out an orgasm so fierce from Sam that it reverberates through them both. Surging, swelling, resisting, Dean comes a minute later. He spills into Sam, spurting hot, thick ropes of come into tight, pulsing heat. They rise and fall against each other, Dean pressing kisses to Sam’s cheek, ginger stubble scraping in the most soothing way. Dean’s hands card through Sam’s hair, gentler now. He eases them back, adjusting their weight and balance, stripes against stripes.

It’s not just the blanket keeping them warm.

And it’s not just Sam who knows the song.

_When did you know?_

Dean takes over holding the blanket up. Their legs and arms form a tangled mess. Nudging Sam’s chin, one more line slips through, joining the cadence of their breathing.

_Tell me again._

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Woo! Something to check off my list of fics to write. :D 
> 
> I love my fractured, imperfect boys. And I love incorporating their powers. And porn. I wrote this while in a cafe, sitting by soccer moms and businessmen lol.
> 
> Comments are love! <3


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